Forgetting
by WritingWhatILikeToWrite
Summary: This time, nothing will be the same. / This is really angsty so you have been warned. I don't want to spoiler but it's kind of an open ending where you can decide if it's good or bad. So hopefully that's some compensation..? Warnings for bad language and aggressive tendencies?


_Author's note: Just to make sure you understand, the italic pieces are flashbacks and the first one is (in the time line) actually the closest to the present, so Sherlock goes back in time in his memories or something. I hope this is understandable.. it sounds weird xD Sorry 'bout that. So the non italic parts is Sherlock, thinking, and stuff and that is chronological. Hope this helps! Have fun (or not, maybe not ;-;) reading!_

* * *

_"JOHN! I can't! I can't forget! I can't delete you! I've tried it a million times but I just can't! You are trapped in there!" Sherlock points at his head, that stupid brain that hadn't been the same ever since John had stepped into his life. "It's like a computer hard drive, you can't delete files that are in use! And you are always somewhere, just around the surface and that is keeping me from forgetting. From just breaking down the room where everything _you_ is! And I'm sorry! I'm r-" He chokes, not able to say anything more. Tears streaming.  
_

* * *

Were ever it went wrong, Sherlock couldn't pinpoint. For some reason John and his behaviour had always been a mystery to him. He was perfect and interesting and yet seemed so terribly ordinary. Maybe that was it, that John himself didn't know who he was. That he was constantly conflicted with himself.

* * *

_"Just forget me! Forget everything! That's what you do, right! Delete things that aren't important!" John is screaming. The sound hurts Sherlock's ears and he isn't sure if he can take it anymore. "Just throw me aside like you do with everything in the end! I was just some experiment, something to stop you from being bored for a while! Well?"  
_

* * *

It's horrible. The flat was empty without him. Without John. Sherlock had always told himself that he would be fine. That he didn't need anyone. _Alone is what I have, alone protects me_. He thought that he would forget. Forget the pain tearing at his chest, the constant thoughts terrorizing his brain. John. But he couldn't.

* * *

_"Sherlock! I can't do this anymore! This- Us! It's just not working! I can't have you risking everything just for some stupid kicks or whatever it is you get from this! This is not what I signed up for, this is not what I want! I want a normal life, I want to marry, I want kids, I want a _real_ job!" John stops taking, staring the blank expression that appears on his face when he is angry. "I can't do this anymore." The last words are broken, beaten down. There isn't much power behind it and Sherlock can see, or maybe just _wants_ to see, that John isn't believing it himself.  
_

* * *

Tears were falling on Sherlock's cheekbones, rolling down, leaving marks he could later see as he looked at his reflection in the mirror. He sat, restless but not moving. He was afraid to look at John's chair. To see the damage he had inflicted to it. He didn't understand what had happened. Couldn't understand what he had done to cause this. John screaming, John leaving. He _had_ to understand!

* * *

_"I _do_ need you, John! I can't think without you!" Sherlock screams, he never screams but he had no idea what to do to keep John with him, how to let him know he _does_ care. "Yeah? You got along fine before me!" He knows he's hurting John, putting him through things he shouldn't. "I got along with drugs!" "So I'm just replacement! I'm just something you take and take until you had enough and you don't want me around anymore!" John is almost crying, Sherlock can see it through the cracks. "You nearly got yourself killed!" And then it's gone again. The hard mask returns._

* * *

Sherlock looked up anyway. The gashes in the leather of John's chair were horrible. It felt as though he had attacked John himself. Sherlock's head fell onto his knees. He saw the knife lying abandoned on the floor, where it had fallen when Sherlock had realised what he was doing. _Cut him out, if necessary_. He clenched his hands. "John.." The name sounded wrong in his mouth, as if it didn't belong there anymore. Why? _Why_?!

* * *

_"You cock! You selfish prick!" John takes a step towards him. His fists are balled and he looks ready to punch. Sherlock deserves it. "John.. just listen." "No, you listen! I'm done listening! I'll do the talking for once!" John breaths in, head tilting to the side as if to shake his thoughts. "You only ever think of yourself! Have you ever even though about how I would feel?!" Sherlock opens his mouth, but John interrupts him. "Don't. Answer that." His arms are strained, tension building up visibly under the fabric of his coat. "You keep saying you can't focus without me, but you leave me hanging whenever you just happen to _forget_ I'm with you! You don't need me! You never needed me!"  
_

* * *

He got up. His feet taking him two steps forward until he reached John's chair. His muscles guiding him down until he was curled up in it. "John, I'm sorry." He spoke, fingers trying to push the stuffing back inside the chair, trying to fix the damage he had inflicted. "I'm sorry I hurt you, I'm sorry. I've been an idiot. You were right." He spoke to the chair as if it _was_ John. And in a way it was. "Always been right." His fingers trembled against a gash and he started crying again.

* * *

_"You are an idiot!" Sherlock keeps quiet, knowing that whatever he will respond would probably only make it worse. "How could you think that it was okay? That I would be fine with this?!" "John.." Sherlock thinks, tries to think of anything that will make John realise. "I've done what I thought was the right thing in the moment." John's eyes widen and for a fraction of a second he looks like he's going to laugh. "You..- the right thing?! Do you even hear yourself talk, Sherlock?!" "John, I'm..-"_

* * *

What went wrong? What went wrong? Where did it go wrong? "Narrow it down.." He needed to know. Think. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Freak! Psychopath! Sherlock didn't even correct the voices inside his head. He knew they were right. He couldn't stand not knowing! Couldn't stand being left in the dark, no clue where to seek for some light. "Goddammit!" Angry, he pushed himself off, hand flinging around, hitting the skull off of the mantel piece. It hit the floor, where it cracked. He'd lost everything the moment John had left. It was all clear now. It didn't matter what had happened because he wouldn't _get_ a chance to fix it. It didn't matter.

* * *

_"John?" Sherlock asks tentatively. He hears footsteps coming up the stairs. _Agitated, quicker than usual_, thinks Sherlock. John isn't responding. As the footsteps reach the door, Sherlock knows this is wrong. The door is thrown open and John looks at him, still saying nothing. His mouth curves in _that_ way, and it takes Sherlock everything to not let his eyes fall down. "I can explain." But it is too late. Sherlock can feel it in his insides, but refuses to listen to it.  
_

* * *

He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. He saw the tear trails on his cheeks, his skin blotchy. He saw himself like he had never seen himself before, he saw himself like in a nightmare. _'I owe you a fall, Sherlock.'_ This was a fall. This was the highest fall Sherlock could make. "Always have it your way, Jim," he said to his reflection. In a slow, lifeless motion, Sherlock grabbed the bottle of sleeping pills from the medicine cabinet. John's pills. He looked at them, though didn't really see, as he emptied the bottle in his hand. Pills. How appropriate. _'You were gonna take that damned pill, weren't you?'_ "Course I wasn't. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up," he repeated his own words, voice already dead.


End file.
